You Eighteen Yet?
by kototyph
Summary: Five times Bones asked the kid how old he was, and the one time he didn't have to. Cute and/or sexy times with the good doctor and his bit of Russian jailbait. Will contain mentions of other parings.
1. First Time: 17

**You Eighteen Yet?**  
>First Time: 17<br>» Chapter Rating: T  
>» Summary: Five times Bones asked the kid how old he was, and the one time he didn't have to. Cute andor sexy times with the good doctor and his bit of Russian jailbait. Will contain mentions of other parings. Inspired by the "You 18 yet?" panel of Annime1231's Star Trek Reboot Meme on deviantART. Look it up, it is the lulz. :-D

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><p><strong>First Time: 17<strong>

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><p>"Excuse me, Keptin! By my calculations-!"<p>

Bones hardly listened to the plan. He was too focused on the bright, animated and above all _young_ face of the ensign that outlined it. Something about Saturn and rings and electromagnetics. Holy Mary and Baby Jesus, they were all about to die, Earth would be disintegrated into cosmic ash and this kid was talking fucking _hide and seek_?

Eventually the ensign ran out of breath, and Bones asked the question.

"Wait a minute… how old are you?"

"I'm seventeen, sir!"

Bones's laugh rode the edge of hysteria. "Oh good. He's seventeen!"

Later, he would realize in horrified disbelief that as he treated the crew injured from the initial attack over Vulcan, and while Jim and the hobgoblin were fighting aboard the Romulan vessel, the conn of the Enterprise warping to Earth from Saturn's rings had been held by one Pavel Andreivitch Chekhov.

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><p><strong>Author Note: <strong>

**This chapter wasn't originally part of the series, but I was rewatching the movie and realized the question is canon! It had to be included, however brief the mention. The real first chapter is the next one. **

**And, since it was in the movie, the dialogue is not mine, etc etc. **


	2. Second Time: 17 and a Half

**You Eighteen Yet?**  
>Second Time: 17 and a Half<br>» Chapter Rating: T  
>» Summary:Five times Bones asked the kid how old he was, and the one time he didn't have to. Cute andor sexy times with the good doctor and his bit of Russian jailbait. Will contain mentions of other parings. Inspired by the "You 18 yet?" panel of Annime1231's Star Trek Reboot Meme on deviantART. Look it up, it is the lulz. :-D

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><p><strong>Second Time: 17 and a Half<br>**

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><p>You didn't need to be on shore leave to get wasted, especially when your damn good Chief Engineering Officer operated his own still in an unused storeroom on Deck 27.<p>

You also didn't need to be on shore leave to get poisoned by alien substances, when your damn stupid Chief Engineering Officer invited you and a select group of friends to sample a batch of experimental extraterrestrial-berry-derived hooch.

They lay pretty much where they'd dropped, a sad heap of soldiers fallen in the battle against sobriety. When he slit his eyes open, they felt sand-blasted, and he gritted out a pained "M'thrf'ckr!" in a voice two octaves lower than usual. It tasted like an entire army had marched through his mouth, and enemy fire had taken out his higher brain functions. One arm was MIA. He couldn't so much as twitch his fingers under a mysterious warm weight flush against his left side.

For a second, he wasn't sure what had woken him up. There were sodden snores from all sides, and a rough grumble he recognized as one Jim Kirk returning to consciousness. _"The fuck?" _the captain asked thickly.

Then the knock came again.

"Nnnnnnn," he moaned in protest. "G'way."

The door slid open. In his current condition Bones couldn't see their visitor, but he was left no illusions about their identity when a cool, subtly disapproving voice said, "Captain. You are required on the bridge."

From his position facedown in the carpet next to Bones's feet, Jim groaned pitifully. "Oh God, Spock, I will give you a million trillion dollars to just disappear."

"I am in no need of supplemental income, nor do I believe your salary high enough to afford such a sum. Captain, you must get up. Beta Shift started approximately thirty-seven minutes ago."

Slowly moving his head, which felt like it might come unhinged at any moment, Bones looked down and saw that the warm body pressed into his side belonged to Pavel Chekhov. He'd wrapped Bones's arm around himself and appropriated it as a pillow; as Bones watched, the Russian sighed and snuggled harder into his sleeve, hands curled to his mouth like a child.

"And how old are you?" Bones rumbled, without malice.

Without opening his eyes, Chekhov mumbled, "Seventeen and a half, _daragaya._ _Pochemu?_"

Bones ruffled his hair, because its wasn't like anyone was looking. On the other side of Chekhov, Sulu was still asleep and drooling. He gave an irritated little huff as the volume of Jim and Spock's argument increased.

There was a sudden protesting yelp from Jim, and a few whimpered curses. Scotty's choking-cattle snore stalled out with a guttural, _"Hhhwhazzat?" _Bones carefully propped himself up on an elbow and was treated to the bizarre sight of an utterly stone-faced Spock carrying his pathetically whining captain princess-style out the door.

For a few blessed moments, silence reigned.

Then, "But where has ma booze all gone?"

Summoning heroic strength from unknown reserves, Bones raised a booted foot and kicked the engineering officer squarely in the ass.

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><p><strong>Author Note:<strong>

**The real first chapter!**


	3. Third Time: 17 point 7

**You Eighteen Yet?**  
>Third Time: 17.7<br>» Rating: T  
>» Classification(s): Humor, Romance<br>» Warnings: Language, Sexual Situations  
>» Summary: Five times Bones asked the kid how old he was, and the one time he didn't have to. Sexy times with the good doctor and his bit of Russian jailbait. Inspired by the "You 18 yet?" panel of Annime1231's Star Trek Reboot Meme on deviantART. Look it up, it is the lulz. :-D<p>

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><p><strong>Third Time: 17.7<strong>

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><p>"Ah'm gonna do it," Scotty insisted. In the course of the evening, his brogue had grown thick enough to spread on toast, and he swayed on his stool like a fisherman weathering rough seas. "Righ' now, an' no mistake."<p>

As the Chief Medical Officer, McCoy was formally against risky behavior that might lead to substantial injury. As a friend, and a man with a few beers under his belt, he clapped his hand on Scotty's shoulder and said, "Go for it, man. I'll betcha none of Thiephan girls have ever seen a real highlander dance the barrels."

"S'righ'! Ah'll show 'em somethin'!" And the Scotsman slid off his seat and wobbled happily off into the crowd.

Uhura, who was sharing a table and a pitcher with them, watched him go with her chin on her folded arms. "How can you encourage him? He'll fall and crack his head open."

Bones eyed the cairns of empty shotglasses surrounding her and remarked, "You can't be doing so well yourself, Lieutenant."

She shot him a black look, just as the bar's central spotlights brightened and two burly men appeared rolling a massive black barrel out onto the floor. The crowd eddied around them in a confused mass, as the ubiquitous techno beats of the club petered out into silence. Scotty appeared from nowhere, jumping onto the lid with one surprisingly nimble hop. "I'll be damned," Bones said in admiration, as the bagpipes blared and Scotty began to move his feet, with a speed and precision that should not have been possible. The crowded floor stilled for a moment, a milling crush of confused clubhoppers unsure of what exactly to make of this new performer.

Then someone started clapping to the beat, and in seconds, a chain reaction had set off the rest of the spectators in a spontaneous orgy of wild movement and whooping laughter. Bones turned with a smirk to his bemused-looking tablemate. "Wanna dance?"

He lost her fairly quickly in the mess, as the natives seemed to think that the proper Scottish jig was equal parts jumping as high as you could and spinning very fast in circles. The dancers moved like excited electrons, centripetal force flinging them across the room and off of walls, into the arms of new partners.

A slender body collided with his, and a cupid's bow mouth disconcertingly close to his own shouted, "Doctor!" above the din of the crowd and wailing fiddles. "Vhat is Scotty doing?" Chekhov asked, grabbing Bones's hands and hopping in place like a rabbit. "It is like Russian Cossack dance! I vant to join!"

It would have been cute if it didn't look so damn stupid. The doctor rolled his eyes and whirled them around each other in a more classically recognized move, making the Russian laugh in delight. "There's hardly room up there for him, let alone you both," Bones told him.

"Zen I vill dance vith you!"

It was surprisingly fun. The kid was light on his feet and let him lead, which was more than Bones could say for his ex-wife, the fat harpy. The room spun, the crowd reeled. The merry, rollicking ballad seemed to go on and on, the dancefloor in love with Scotty and the music and the moment the two created together. Bones danced with the Enterprise's runty little navigations officer, and enjoyed every second of it.

When the rolling drumbeats finally stopped, the applause was immediate and deafening. Bones grinned down at Pavel, panting a bit, and the kid giggled breathlessly back at him.

A slower, more dreamy song started, and just as Bones opened his mouth to invite Chekhov back to their table the Russian cuddled into his chest, swaying slightly to the music.

"Hey, come on. I'm tired." _And this is a couple's song, you dolt. _He tried to back away, and realized that at some point the Russian had hooked fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and wasn't letting go. The boy looked up coyly through his lashes, and Bones let out a snort of surprised laughter.

"How old are you again?"

Chekhov took that as permission to wind his arms up around the other's neck. "Seventeen point seven, doctor. How old are you?"

Bones sighed in resigned annoyance, and allowed the embrace. In the background, a female vocalist began to sob about broken hearts. "Too old to be slow-dancing with a seventeen point seven-year-old."


	4. Fourth Time: 17 and 9 Months

**You Eighteen Yet?**  
>Fourth Time: 17 and Nine Months<br>» Rating: M  
>» Classification(s): Humor, Romance<br>» Warnings: Language, Sexual Situations  
>» Summary: Five times Bones asked the kid how old he was, and the one time he didn't have to. Cute andor sexy times with the good doctor and his bit of Russian jailbait. Inspired by the "You 18 yet?" panel of Annime1231's Star Trek Reboot Meme on deviantART. Look it up, it is the lulz. :-D

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><p><strong>Fourth Time: 17 and Nine Months<strong>

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><p>McCoy didn't think he'd blushed this hard since his baby sister caught him with classic Playboys on his PADD.<p>

"This—" He was cut off by a low hiss, the rush of hot breath against the nape of his neck raising goosebumps all down his spine. His voice cracked like a teenager's. "_This _is probably not the best angle," he managed to get out. Specifically, he was speaking of the angle that had one Pavel Andreivitch Chekhov draped over the front of Bones's body while the doctor attempted to remove bits of shrapnel from his back and hindquarters.

"But it _hurts_," Chekhov told him with a pained whimper, fingers clutching distractingly at Bones' shoulders. "I need somezing to hold on to."

The Russian was naked but for a thin, open-backed hospital gown that was threatening to fall off any moment, and he knelt on the edge of an examination table with his weight braced against Bones's chest. The position was, to put it mildly, dangerous—it put the Russian's bare ass on display and his mouth just a few centimeters above the doctor's sensitive collarbone.

"Then—just— hold_ still,_ damn it," McCoy pleaded, trying desperately to ignore the heady press of that slim body against his. He splayed his latex-gloved hand over the small of Chekhov's back in an attempt to stop the squirming as he brought his forceps back to the task at hand.

"_Bol'na_," the boy protested, as Bones slowly wiggled another fragment of whatever the hell had blown up in command out of the smooth, inviting— _no_. That way lay madness. And as a physician there was no way he should have to be fighting down an erection from rubbing antibiotic cream into the tempting inner curve of—_gah._

Ten more minutes of Chekhov's sultry moaning in his ear and Bones felt a little light-headed, but the end was in sight. "How's the pain, Pavel?" His voice came out hoarse.

In response, the Russian ran a thumb down McCoy's jugular and husked into his collar, "You could kiss it better, doctor."

Bones's mouth went dry as a desert. Drier. He swallowed convulsively and rasped, "You eighteen yet, kid?"

A voice floated over to them from beyond the drawn curtains of the semi-private sickbed. "Pashka, does your virtue need saving?"

Shit. Bones'd forgotten they had an audience. "Shut up or it's the hypo again, Sulu," he snapped.

The helm officer giggled like a little girl. "Naw, I'm still good. Them purple unicorns are really great mimes. Awesome."

"I loooooooove unicorns," a dreamy-sounding Jim seconded. "They're so, like, magical. And pretty. Aren't they pretty, Spock?"

Spock sounded very tired. "As I do not metabolize kava-derived sedatives in the same manner as humans and thus am not participating in your shared hallucination, I can form no opinion, Captain. I am, however, enjoying the pink sehlats."

"Oh! Oh! I got it!" Uhura gasped rapturously. "He's riding a bicycle! He's miming that he's riding a bicycle!"

"Duh," snorted Jim.

"That's right, guys, watch the miming unicorns," McCoy mumbled. "Last one, Pavel." One last puncture to tend, and then he could wrap that sinful body three deep in bandages and slap a mental gift tag on him: Do Not Open Before Age of Majority.

He tugged the piece free and Chekhov slumped forward onto him, the last of the tension leaving his body. "Three months," the Russian sighed.

"Hmmm?" Bones leaned back a bit to drop the fragment into a stainless steel dish, unconsciously putting his arm around Chekhov to balance him.

"Three more months," the Russian said wistfully, just as the hospital gown finally gave up the ghost and slid off thin shoulders to bunch at the elbows. Bones hurriedly looked away and prayed for patience. Christ, where was a patron saint for severely overtaxed libidos when you needed one?

Chekhov flipped the fabric over the Bones's head with his forearms still braced inside the sleeves. Instant lasso.

Trapped against the now very very naked Russian as he snuggled into him like a happy cat, Bones squeezed his eyes shut and gritted out, "Damn it, Chekhov! I'm a doctor, not a stripper pole!"

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><p><strong>Author Note:<strong>

**Wow, keeping the chapters short has allowed me to update every day pretty consistently! I guess I average about a page a day... which would explain why chapters for my other stories take at least a week to get up. TT,TT**

**Crash course in Russian diminutives: Pavel = Pasha = Pashka = Pashulitchka. The only difference is level of affection. :-D**


	5. Fifth Time: 17 and 344 Days

**You Eighteen Yet?**  
>Fifth Time: 17 and 344 days<br>» Rating: T  
>» Summary: Five times Bones asked the kid how old he was, and the one time he didn't have to. Sexy times with the good doctor and his bit of Russian jailbait. Inspired by the "You 18 yet?" panel of Annime1231's Star Trek Reboot Meme on deviantART. Look it up, it is the lulz. :-D<p>

Chapter-specific warning: hurt/comfort and FLUFFY SAPPY AAAAAAARGH. DX

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><p><strong>Fifth Time: 17 and 344 days<strong>

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><p>"Doctor."<p>

Someone was touching his face, gently. He became aware of the slight pressure only gradually, rising slowly from the black depths of utter exhaustion.

"Doctor McCoy," said the voice again, low and soft. The cool fingertips traced lightly over the ridge of his brow, stroking back the hair that had fallen in his face as he slept. Still floating in the dark behind his eyelids, he frowned.

"…Bones. Please vake up. Ze keptin—"

"…Jim?" McCoy croaked, eyes blinking sluggishly open. A blurry figure resolved itself into Chekhov, face wan and drawn in the cold sterile light. The Russian crouched next to him, hand now resting on his rough, unshaven cheek.

McCoy lay scrunched up and fully dressed on the hard loveseat he kept in his office, face mashed into a lumpy accent pillow that had seen better days. It took him a moment to remember that his office adjoined sickbay, and another to remember why that was important.

"God, Jim!" A brief jolt of adrenaline had him jackknifing into a sitting position, every aching joint and muscle protesting fiercely, but when he would have continued to his feet Pavel put hand on his chest and held him in place.

"Ze keptin is awake, Bones. He is vanting me to tell you—"

Bones batted the hand away and hauled himself to his feet, hobbling like a crippled man for the doorway. A scrape and scuffle of boots told him Chekhov was right behind him.

There in the center bed was his captain, lying very still and ghastly pale against the white sheets. The monitors that clustered around him like vultures beeped regularly, keeping morbid watch over his vital signs. Bones checked them reflexively as he staggered his way to the bed and gripped the metal frame to hold himself upright. "Jim?"

When those bruised eyes slid open and the captain smiled, fucking smiled at him… "Jesus _wept_, Jimmy, you had me going," the doctor told him, sagging with relief. Pavel was there, arm sneaking around his waist in mute support.

"Sorry 'bout that," the other man whispered. He coughed weakly.

Bones reached unsteadily for the PADD chart at the foot of the bed, unhooking it and bringing it close enough to read. "Broken bones, burns, contusions, and a phaser hit that stopped your heart for a bit. Your throat hurts because we had to put you on a ventilator."

"Shit," Jim said faintly. "This might be a personal best for me. This or that one time with the horny lava people."

"Damn it, Jim, it's not a laughing matter!" Bones growled. "You could have died!" _You __**did**__ die, a couple of times, and I had to bring you back._

Jim's eyes flicked around the room then, to the other beds and empty chairs. "Hey, where's my XO? I coulda sworn I saw him get winged at least once."

Bones glowered down at him. "I'm so sorry, Jim," he said gravely.

"…what?" the other man said, smile fading. "What—what happened?"

"I… I tried my best, but—"

Jim's eyes had gone wide and glassy. His lips parted in mute protest. _No._

"—somehow, the hobgoblin still managed to pull through."

Jim stared at him for a beat. "Bones…" He let out a shaky laugh, covering his face with the arm that didn't have an IV stuck into it. "Bones, that wasn't fucking funny. God, I hate you."

"Shut up. Your first officer is fine, everybody else is fine. You're the one—" and Bones's voice failed him. Those first few hours after the mission, when Jim wouldn't stabilize and wouldn't stop bleeding, he'd felt as useless as all the king's horses and all the king's men; powerless to stop his friend's life from slipping through his fingers like sand from a broken hourglass. "You need to stop doing this to me. I'm an old man, Jim, I can't take the excitement."

The impish grin he got was a pale shadow of its normal self. "Sorry. Won't happen again."

McCoy glared down at him. "I'll chain you to this bed."

"Kinky." The captain sighed and closed his eyes. "You were sleeping in your office?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so. Asked Mr. Chekhov to get you to a real bed."

McCoy glanced to his right and saw the navigations officer waiting there patiently. These days he always just seemed to be there. Waiting patiently. Pavel smiled at him, and Bones surprised himself by smiling back. A bit abashed under Jim's knowing gaze, he jerked his eyes back to the other man. "I could do with some shut-eye," he allowed. "It must be the middle of Gamma Shift by now." At the very _mention _of sleep his limbs got heavier, and he smothered a creeping yawn with his hand.

Jim made a shooing motion. "Go. I'm good now, right?"

"Seems that way." He thought about adding, _Try not to die while I'm gone_, but it was still a bit too immediate to joke about. He settled for a brief, manly shoulder-pat. "G'nite, Jim."

He and Chekhov were almost too the door when Jim spoke again. "Uh, Bones?"

The doctor looked back over his shoulder.

Jim licked his lips. "Where _is _Spock? I mean... "

Bones smirked, tiredly, and stared pointedly down at the blanket-swaddled figure on the cot next to Jim's sickbed, invisible from the captain's prone position. "Oh, the same place he's been for the last ten hours."

Jim's brow crinkled. "Where?"

Bones pointed, but felt compelled to add, "Just let him sleep. He's been here as long as I have."

The sickbay doors closed on Jim completely ignoring Bones's advice, as he often did.

Time seemed to slip out of focus then, his vision narrowing and blurring at the edges. He had flashes of the hallway, the lift, and then suddenly they were at his quarters and Pavel was asking for the third time, "Doctor, your code?"

Once inside, it became a major battle just to remain upright long enough to get his shoes off. In the end, Pavel pushed him down on the bed and said, "Let me." The boots were fought off, then the socks. "Lift your arms," he coaxed, and tugged his shirt and black undertunic off.

Only when the Russian reached for his fly did Bones give a grunt of protest.

"Vhat? You vant to sleep vith your pants on?"

"... no." Jesus, this was infantilizing. He would have been more embarrassed if he wasn't so fucking tired.

Happily, Pavel didn't linger over the task. In a few seconds Bones was down to his boxers, and managed with the last of his strength to grab for the edge of his regulation coverlet and bring it up to his chin. He didn't want to think anymore, he just wanted empty, peaceful, dreamless sleep. His temples throbbed like broken teeth but his muscles were at last unclenching, leaving his limbs feeling leaden and unresponsive. His eyes closed.

"... Bones?

Christ.

"Can I— can I sleep vith you?"

Christ on _**crutches**_.

The doctor cracked a heavy eyelid. Pavel was standing next to the bed with a solemnity that rivaled parade rest, a look of almost painful earnestness on his face. "It has been... a very behd day. I do not vant to sleep alone," he blurted.

Bones just looked at him.

"And... I zink... you also should not sleep alone, doctor." Now Pavel was studying his feet, looking adorably bashful.

"... h'm'ny?" McCoy muttered, finally.

The Russian looked up. "_Shto_?"

Bones cleared his throat. "How many? Months 'til your birthday?"

Pavel smiled, a shy little tilt of lips. "Twenty-one days, doctor."

They stared at each other for a moment, one side hopeful, the other wondering exactly when his life had become a romcom.

In the end it was of course McCoy who caved. He rolled on his back, eyes closing again, and said gruffly, "Do what you want."

There was a pause, then series of frantic rustles. He couldn't stop his mouth from curving, any more than he could stop the blissful sigh as Pavel scooted under the covers and burrowed into him, body heat sinking into Bones's chilled skin like a spring thaw. The kid was grabby as an octopus, but damn, it felt good.

The Russian buried his face in the juncture of Bones's shoulder and neck, and the doctor's arm went around him almost automatically, hand smoothing down the bumps of his ribcage to rest at his bare hip.

Hmmm.

"Pavel?" he said, without opening his eyes.

"Pasha."

Bones's eyebrow twitched. "...Pasha?"

"Da?"

"Are you _completely naked_?"

The damn brat actually snorted, wiggling deeper into Bones's arms and lifting his face to kiss the side of Bones's chin. "I find undervear... constricting. I usually do not vear it," he confessed, with a throaty little laugh.

The doctor did his best to summon up a scowl, but even those muscles had stopped obeying him. He settled for a mildly disapproving "Hmph," and stroked the tender line where leg met lower abdomen. _Tensor fasciae latae muscle_, his ever-helpful medical training supplied.

The gentle fingers that had woken him earlier were back, brushing down the stubbly curve of his jaw. "Bones…"

"Hmph?"

Pavel chuckled. "I like it vhen you are too tired scold me."

The last thing McCoy felt before finally succumbing to exhausted sleep was the warm press of lips to the corner of his mouth, and the deeper, dreamier euphoria of falling asleep tangled up in someone he loved.

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><p><strong>Author Note:<strong>

**If you think about it, McCoy must have an iron stomach or ulcers the size of dinner plates. And I was soooooo sleepy by the end of this. I wanted to crawl in bed and not get out til Monday.**

**A kind reviewer pointed out that I have been misspelling Chekhov's name. Yes, yes I have been, and deliberately. From another author note:**

**"Chekov versus Chekhov: a single K- that is how this character's name **_**is **_**spelled, in canon and in fancanon. I accept this, but I don't like it. The only place I can express my preference for the real thing is here, in my own fic. AND SO I WILL! FFFFUUUUUUUUUUUU"**

**Sorry, it's a Russian studies thing. XD**

**Also, next chapter: TEH SEX. Friendly warning.**


	6. Plus One

**You Eighteen Yet?**  
>Plus One<br>» Rating: M  
>» Summary: Five times Bones asked the kid how old he was, and the one time he didn't have to. Sexy times with the good doctor and his bit of Russian jailbait. Inspired by the "You 18 yet?" panel of Annime1231's Star Trek Reboot Meme on deviantART. Look it up, it is the lulz. :-D<p>

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><p><strong>Plus One<br>**

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><p>The door to Chekhov's quarters slid open, and the ensign stepped over the threshold with his personal comm to his ear, laughing at something someone on the other end had said. "<em>Da, harasho, harasho<em>. I am stepping into my room—" He hit the speaker button, setting the comm aside so he could hold into the package he carried and fumble along the wall near the door for the room controls. "I am, _da_, turning on ze light—" _Click._

He stopped speaking abruptly, and for a moment there was only expectant silence, and the quiet _whoosh_ of the door as it closed behind him.

"_And?_" came an excited voice from the comm. "_**And**__?_"

"... Hikaru, you shouldn't have," Chekhov said, his eyes growing comically wide at the sight that greeted him.

"_It was nothing,_" Sulu preened. _"The best friends always give the best presents, right?_"

"_Nyet_," Chekhov said more firmly, stepping forward to survey the damage. "You really, really should not have, because now the doctor is looking more like he wants to _kill_ me than _f—_"

McCoy, after being ambushed and hypo-edin his own sickbay, had woken up a half an hour ago in the middle of Chekhov's bed, gagged and trussed like a prize pig. His chest and thighs were crisscrossed with heavy smooth ribbon, his wrists hogtied to his ankles. There was a giantfucking _red satin bow_ on his crotch. Weren't these people supposed to be his _colleagues_? As in, _professionals_? "Mmm_hmmm_hmmm_MMMMM_!" he ordered through the gag, jerking against his bonds.

"No, you really should not have," Chekhov concluded with dazed bemusement. He licked his lips, staring at the bow.

"_At least look at the other part,_" Sulu pleaded. "_It gets better!_"

Chekhov blinked as if drawn out of some private reverie and looked down at the box he still held. "Better?"

"_Open it! Open it!_" a new voice pleaded, one that sounded suspiciously like their chief communications officer.

"_Okei, okei_, I am opening it," Chekhov assented, hesitantly thumbing up the lid like there might be something inside that would bite him. "Ah..."

"_Well?_" Sulu and the new voice prompted.

"... these, eh, would be lubricants, I am imagining?" the Russian said, obviously trying for nonchalant as a fiery red blush rushed up his cheeks. "And... t-toys... and, instruction manuals of some sort?" he squeaked out.

Raucous laughter from far more than two mouths spilled out of the comm. "_I recommend the coconut, myself," _someone shouted over the general merriment. Bones catalogued each and every separate laugh and promised them as slow and painful a death as his medical training could provide. He growled into the gag.

Snapping out of his embarrassed haze, Chekhov let the box fall with a thump and jumped to untie the thin strip of fabric. The second it was loose Bones spat it out and snarled towards the comm, "From now on, boys and girls, you can look forward to good old-fashioned twenty-_first_ century medicine! When you need something fixed _I'm gonna cut you open like a fish._"

"_Shit,_" someone said, but the rest began loudly singing the traditional birthday song. "_—happy birthday dear Chekhov, happy birthday to you!_"

Pavel looked bewildered. "But... it is not even-"

The comm gave a low buzz, and a computerized voice said, "Terran midnight. Happy birthday, Ensign Chekhov."

"- my birzday yet," he finished belatedly. "Oh."

"_Yep,"_ said a third voice. _"Enjoy your gift! We all know how much you've been... looking forward to it..._" On the other end of the line, lecherous sniggers abounded.

McCoy, still fighting furiously against the ribbon, promised with all the murderous rage he could muster, "I _WILL_ find you, and _WHEN I DO_-_!_"

"_So, happy birthday, Pavel_," Sulu said hastily, and signed off.

"GAH!" McCoy yelled in frustration, unable to do more than wiggle and flex on the bed like a worm on a hook.

With something suspiciously like amusement coloring his tone, Pavel said, "Please, doctor. Let me help."

Bones bristled, but subsided.

As Pavel sat next to him, the bed dipped and Bones's helpless weight nearly rolled them both right off the edge. "Sorry, sorry," the Russian apologized, and moved to straddle his knees. On his stomach, the doctor couldn't see what exactly what the ensign was doing, but he heard the mumbled Russian curses and felt slight tugs here and there at the crisscrossing ribbons. After one particularly hard pull, the ensign asked, "Did zat do anyzing?"

Bones wriggled some more, and found that although his wrists were still tied to his ankles, they were no longer tied together. He managed to squirm onto his back under Pavel, knees coming up behind the other man. There was still an uncomfortable pull as his arms were forced to stretch, but at least he felt less like a roast on a platter.

Poised kneeling over him, Pavel took in his calmer face and his own expression visibly eased. "Better?"

"Better," Bones admitted grudgingly.

Pavel smiled then, a bit mischievously, and his fingers came down to toy with the huge bow. "You know, it vould be a terrible shame if you killed them," he said, a teasing glint in his eye. "After all, I do like my present. Very much," he added, leaning down to kiss at McCoy's bottom lip.

"Yeah, well, your 'present' doesn't appreciate being hauled around and dumped here like Klingon war booty," he grumbled, his ire fading despite himself.

"No?" Pavel murmured against his mouth.

Reflexively, McCoy tried to bring his arms up around him and was stopped short by the restraining ribbon. "Definitely not," he muttered back. "Untie m— hey!" He jerked his head, breaking the soft connection. "Untie me. The rest of the way."

"Mmmhmm," the Russian replied soothingly, and planted a chaste peck on the dip in his chin. "I will. But you know, doctor," he said, settling his weight more firmly onto Bones and catching the doctor's head in his hands. "I like to unwrap my presents _very slowly_." He leaned in and lapped lightly at the stubbornly closed juncture of Bones's lips.

The kid's kisses were addictive. What he lacked in skill he more than made up for in enthusiasm, his obvious delight in the process making something as simple as their two mouths meeting acutely erotic. The second Bones allowed his lips to be coaxed open Pavel was sucking on his tongue like it was a lollipop, and with the ribbon shackling his arms Bones found himself at a serious disadvantage leverage-wise to combat the hungry press of that ravenous mouth.

"Untie me," he ordered again, more weakly than he'd intended, when they broke apart to breathe. The Russian responded by beginning a leisurely path down the doctor's throat, Bones arching back and giving an involuntarily "_Ah!"_ when Pavel found that sweet spot where collarbone met neck, the edge of teeth sending a flash of heat sparking through him like summer lightning. "Damn it, Pa— _ngh!_" he groaned when Pavel sucked there, hard.

The ensign grinned mischievously, rearing up for a moment to pull off his uniform shirts and tossing them off somewhere into the vastly unimportant space that was not the bed. He ran his hot, curious hands up under McCoy's science blues and the doctor rasped, "_Untie me now!_"

"_Ne hochu zhdat',_" Pavel whispered, and kissed him again.

McCoy yanked desperately at the ribbons, and felt them give a minuscule, miserly inch. Not enough, not nearly enough, especially when the rocking motion of the yank unbalanced Pavel into accidentally grinding down on him, surprising rough moans from both of them. "_Oh_," the Russian breathed, eyes slipping half-closed, and he began to move in earnest, palms sliding up to brace against his shoulders as he rode Bones. Fingers dug hard into skin and the doctor's eyes threatened to roll back in his head.

The ribbon needed to go, now. Pasha appeared to have tugged something loose, but it wasn't coming undone without a fight. Every twist and wriggle had the added drawback of rocking his hardening erection against the ensign's in a way _he_ certainly seemed to (loudly) appreciate but which was tying McCoy into hard, tight, tangled knots of frustrated arousal. "Damn it," he ground out, unsure of exactly who he was cursing as Pavel scratched slowly down his chest. He couldn't stop himself from bucking up when nails scraped over his nipples, any more than he could stop the surprised whine as Pavel suddenly leaned down and sucked one into his feverishly warm mouth. Suddenly, the orgasm he'd been battling off was hovering just a few strokes away, driven by tugs and nips and the roll of that eager body against his. _"Fuck,"_ he gasped, and wrenched as hard as he could against the ribbon.

The fabric tore with a harsh rending sound and McCoy had Pavel flat on his back in a fraction of a second, eyes wild and breathing labored.

Pavel was flushed a delicious pink, his lips red and swollen and his eyes a little cloudy and unfocused. "Ah. Vas… vas zat too fast?" he panted.

Bones blinked down at him. "Was that—? Pash, I was two seconds away from coming in my pants."

The ensign looked completely unrepentant, already flexing testingly against the doctor's hands where they pinned his arms to the bed. "Perhaps... perhaps you should remove zem, zen?"

He snarled out something profane, but sat back to do just that. Pavel followed him, ostensibly to help; the sudden hot, wet suction of lips around his earlobe and the fingers sliding sneakily down the front of his boxers were not helpful, not at all. "Down, boy," McCoy growled as he fought off his shirts.

The Russian hummed in response and started on the doctor's pants without him, greedy hands getting progressively more aggressive and bold. At that point, McCoy gave up fending them off and, now that his own hands were free, simply tried to give as good as he got. His fingers felt thick and clumsy, months of living on this monastery of a ship— tempting altar boy included—leaving him feeling frenzied, touch-starved, reluctant to release even an inch of claimed skin but still craving more, more. More whispered curses and quivering muscle, more of the taste of sweat and the sight of Pavel's eyes going blurry and blind, lips parting on a string of almost wounded noises when Bones put one of those ludicrously-flavored lubes to use.

He'd never be able to drink a pina colada again.

Although his previous experience in this area was limited to giving prostate exams, he must have been doing something right; Pavel bucked against him, mouthing Russian words of encouragement and endearment against Bones's neck as his hands tangled in the doctor's hair, fisting there. He was trying to go slow, give this beautiful boy who had somehow ended up in his arms time to adjust and enjoy, but when Pasha slammed himsef down on Bones, his head tipping back with a grateful moan, he swore he blacked out for a moment. When he came to, Pavel was wrapped around and under him, clawing at his back and desperately calling out his name.

Later, long into Gamma shift and after slower, sweeter second and third rounds, Pavel lay draped across his chest as limp as an overcooked noodle, breath evening out as he slipped into sleep. Bones was halfway there himself, but for the moment time seemed suspended and he drifted in lazy contentment, thumb idly stroking along the soft skin behind his lover's ear. Pavel gave a drowsy "_Mmm_," and whispered something tender and affectionate against his neck.

Of course, it was in Russian. Pavel had abandoned English altogether at some point during the night. Bones chuckled and kissed the top of his head. "_Yah lyublyu tebya_, too."

* * *

><p><strong>Author Note:<strong>

**May I finally present... the end of the series! Also, fail!porn. Why does the porn, even if it is fail!porn, always take so long to write? I have no idea. **

**Admittedly, it also took a bit longer because I was working on Masquerade CH2 at the same time, which I've posted tonight too. Spirk, anyone? **

**And, because I worry about these things... pina coladas have coconut in them. Get it? Do you? Thank the Lord.  
><strong>


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